You Should See Me in a Crown(13)
And that’s just the punch to the gut I needed after today. A comparison to one of the many ways I can’t live up to the expectations set by my mom. But I can’t say that to my granny either, because I don’t talk back and because she’s right. I know the rules. You don’t miss dinner without a phone call, and I dropped the ball.
It’s only been a day of this prom stuff, and I’m so over it I could puke.
“Sorry, Granny. It won’t happen again,” I mumble.
“I know it won’t, baby.” Granny’s voice is soft as she holds my cheeks with both her hands. She examines my face and pats my cheek twice. “You look tired. Make sure you drink plenty of water. Last thing we need is you studying yourself into dehydration before we even get you to Pennington.”
When she walks away, she pushes at Robbie’s feet that are currently resting on the coffee table and tells him to quit acting like “some kind of heathen.” I drop my bags off in my bedroom and sort of shuffle through the living room and into the kitchen. I know Granny is annoyed, but she wouldn’t leave me without a foil-wrapped plate, ready to be reheated. When I open the door to the fridge, it’s on the second shelf, right where I figured it would be.
I don’t even bother throwing it in the microwave before dragging my feet into my room and falling onto my bed with a thud. I don’t even toe my shoes off, because it would take too much energy. I still have to practice my music and review G’s thirty-two-point plan again before I can call it a night, but for a moment I just balance my plate of cold chicken on my stomach and stare up at the ceiling. The notes from my arrangement practically dance across my line of vision, almost like counting sheep. For the first time all day, in the silence of my room and the almost-music of those imaginary notes, I feel close to relaxed.
And before I know it, I’m asleep.
The thing about anxiety is that it looks different for everyone. I mean, yeah, of course there are some threads that run through all of us that mark us as, you know, anxious people: being restless, exhausted, just plain fidgety. But it’s the nuances that change the game. It’s my stomach-churning, gazelles-dancing-gracefully-across-my-abdomen feeling that always gets me the most.
It’s why I toss my cookies (or almost toss my cookies, if I’m extra lucky) before nearly every performance, and why I’m clutching my bike’s handlebars for dear life, breathing slowly through both nostrils like that counselor they made me see after my mom died taught me, as I psych myself up to go clean up trash in this already-clean park after school.
Granny is used to me going to work or having rehearsal after school, so as long as I’m home in time for dinner, at least I don’t have to worry about that.
I’m perched on my seat at the bike rack next to the parking lot, and from where I’m sitting, I can see everything as I scan the area: the group of ladies and their newborns doing Mommy-and-Me yoga in the freshly cut grass, the kids from the nearby community college playing Ultimate Frisbee in the clearing, the dogs chasing one another in the fenced-in dog park.
Across the parking lot, Jordan Jennings tugs at his black Nike hoodie and bends down to check his appearance in his side mirror. He runs a hand over his waves—the style he’s been wearing since he cut off all his curls freshman year—and stands up straight. He must have decided that he’s public-appearance ready. Nothing less than cover-model worthy for Jordan Jennings.
I remember that I have a job to do—one huge, my-entire-future-depends-on-this job to do—and hop off my bike just as his eyes catch mine across the lot. He doesn’t smile when he sees me looking. Instead, his face flashes what is almost a grimace before it schools itself back into something more flawless.
“Hey, Lighty!” he shouts, and gives me the classic head nod. I lock my bike to the rack and steel myself for this interaction. We’ve successfully avoided each other for almost four years, but all good things must eventually end, I guess. “Still riding your bike, huh? Good to see some things haven’t changed.”
I bite back the urge to say something snarky to him about how all our families can’t just buy us the newest Supercharged Range Rover because we remembered to tie our shoes or whatever. If we have to work together, the smart thing to do is to make this as bearable as possible. Bite my tongue, put my head down, and get to work. The Lighty Way.
“Looks that way.” I tug my backpack higher on my shoulders and start in the direction of the park attendants’ station.
“So, partners, huh?” He waits a beat, and when he realizes I don’t plan to respond, adds: “Crazy they have us out here, right? It’s not like they need our janitorial services.”
“Sure.”
“A woman of few words nowadays, I guess,” he mumbles from behind me. The petty in me is a little bit happy about how frustrated he sounds with my short answers.
What? I never said I was perfect. He’s had four years to make aimless conversation with me: in the classroom, in the hallways, over my grandparents’ old landline using the number he used to have memorized. But he hasn’t. So.
The park is bustling now, all our classmates who were also assigned trash duty today finally here and milling around. I see a couple of guys from the baseball team leaning against the swing set, the girls they’re partnered with taking selfies.